


Two Faced

by Madam_Marie



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Aliens, Alive Reginald Hargreeves, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Klaus Hargreeves, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Blood and Gore, Childhood Sweethearts, Double Life, Drug Use, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gay, Gay Panic, Government Conspiracy, Guns, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Torture, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, M/M, Modern Assassins, OR IS HE, Party, Past Abuse, Pseudo-Incest, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Secret Identity, Sex, Sibling Bonding, Spies & Secret Agents, Strained Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, powerless!Klaus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26727493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madam_Marie/pseuds/Madam_Marie
Summary: Ever since childhood, Klaus Hargreeves found himself struggling to fit in with his six superhero siblings. His fate is sealed when Reginald discovers the forbidden romance between he and Diego, shipping him to a Hell far away. After all, what use does an average kid have in an academy of superhumans? However, his life takes an unexpected turn when he's discovered by the Handler, a woman who searches for diamonds in the rough. Torn between who he was and who he is, Number Four navigates through life playing two roles simultaneously. Follow him on a journey through love, family drama, and self-discovery as he attempts to close the rift between his colliding worlds.tl;dr- Klaus struggles with family shit as he was raised by the handler, and his little organization is at odds with the umbrella academy
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves/Luther Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves/Jill, Diego Hargreeves/Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	Two Faced

**Author's Note:**

> lmfaooo my dumbass really out here posting a THIRD umbrella academy fic after not finishing the other ones #CLOWN
> 
> anyways I hope you guys enjoy this :') 
> 
> it's definitely kinda a drama thriller type thing but tbh i never know where im going with this shit so it could end up being anything
> 
> basically season two really got the creativity flowing again so here we are
> 
> comments, kudos and feedback is always appreciated! thanks for clicking and reading my bullshit c:

When the relentless chaos of slaughter finally subsided all that remained was an ominous silence. The midnight crickets had ceased their chorus in the midst of the bloodshed, the stars weeping soundlessly in long-awaited victory. 

“Victory” was the bittersweet, and rather ironic, description of cold-blooded murder, an unforgivable sin so freezing it ignited the flames of hell within those who witnessed it. Such an abundance of death would certainly be ruled a tragedy, just like the media exclaimed if their twisted conception of truth held any relation to reality. 

After all, words are peculiar in their very nature. Isn’t it funny how one word can hold such drastically different meanings? How one word can trigger a diverse palette of emotions in one being and bring about nothing in another?

To most of the world, the triumph was a  _ beautiful  _ thing, a concept of strength, perseverance, and pride. Maybe that’s  _ exactly  _ what triumph is...perhaps beauty is the idea that ranges from person to person. In the end, who could really say?

Until the age of seventeen, Klaus Hargreeves was convinced he understood what this aforementioned  _ beauty  _ was. If you had asked the boy at that age to list things he found charming, an answer so utterly mundane, so completely predictable, would have slid through his soft pink lips. 

“Hot guys and flowers.” 

What a sweet contradiction to the response he would give after the horrifically gorgeous day of October 2, 2012. The day after he turned seventeen. 

Laying there, in a daunting cage made for an animal, half-naked, bruised, and unable to see, the teenage boy listened to a chorus so wonderful the angels would cry. That night, a song more moving than children humming church melodies, more breathtaking than a long-held opera note, resounded through Saint Michael’s Community Based Correctional Facility. 

Although barely alive and ready to capitulate, the fatal, terrified howls of the beasts who dared to call themselves  _ caretakers _ , shot adrenaline through Number Fours veins, so extremely orgasmic, so absolutely…. **_beautiful._ **

Those voices that used to taunt, that used to scream, that used to  _ demand _ , were reduced to echoes beneath the cruel popping of machine guns. Of course, this was accompanied by the gruesome wails of his peers, the demons that wore the skin of young men. 

It was strange, to hear the predator become helpless prey, begging for mercy, much like he used to. Knuckles that used to smash his teeth were now motionless and drenched in a thick, crimson subsistence, shades deeper than that of a rose. 

Those Goddamned steel-toed boots that would shatter his bones on the daily now dashed for shelter, far  _ far  _ away from this personalized little version of Hell, only to fall quietly after the glamorous bangs of piping hot bullets. 

Unlike the staff and other residents of Saint Michaels, Klaus had lost touch with the desire to live long ago, snuffed out by those who were now stained corpses. Even if his skeletal legs urged him to run, it would be impossible in a dog’s cage, impossible when you haven’t been able to stand on your own two feet in ages.

Playing with the seams of his blood and urine stained black panties, Hargreeves waited anxiously for his unknown fate to greet him, ready to introduce himself with great anticipation. 

With his other senses often dulled, his hearing abilities had increased tenfold, the intimidating tapping of stilettos upon concrete floors ringing through his eardrums, approaching his location steadily. 

Oh, how he  _ prayed  _ the woman wearing them would be one of his sisters! His siblings dubbed superheroes, finally here to save their very own brother from a fate worse than death! 

However, he was not completely foolish, chuckling at the notion the moment it crossed his mind. 

They had left him to rot in this shithole, because they did whatever daddy said, without question. He was just a useless liability, because he lacked superhuman abilities because he was just a little _ different _ . The six kids in the Umbrella Academy were fluffy, delicious, slices of strawberry shortcake while he was discarded chopped meat. Who the hell would want that?

It was true, he hadn’t spoken in months. He had indeed cried, screamed, whined, and begged, but speak? Absolutely not. So it hardly came as a shock, when he opened his dry, cracking lips to speak, and a pathetic rasp dragged itself out of his scratched throat. 

Through the tear-stained blindfold, he could sense the heavy, padlocked wooden door had been opened, allowing yearned for streaks of light to hesitantly crawl into his dark, and wretched abode. 

As the happy-go-lucky jingle of dangling keys faded off into the abyss, the menacing beat of a high-heeled stride resumed, its strength growing as distance reduced. 

Unable to curb his internal thrill, the teenage boy strained his torn up and sliced limbs for what was hopefully the last time, forcing his cadaverous torso to rise from the slicked flooring of his crammed penitentiary. 

“You’re gonna shoot me, right?” He managed out, astounded by how grotesque his own voice had grown to be. Containing the excitement bubbling within his empty stomach was a challenge on its own, nearly fleshless fingers wrapping around iron bars as they trembled. 

The footsteps halted just before his sorrowful crate, the silhouette of an unknown being standing before the half-dead Hargreeves. Beneath the unwavering shroud of shadows, it was clear all that remained in confinement was skin and bones, a young lad damned to eternal suffering. 

However, he did not feel fear, nor terror. All that leaked from his chest was peace, a sensation of tranquility he never thought he’d experience again. Just the thought of liberation from this shit reality was enough to send a burst of hysteria to his cardiovascular parts, the lack of reply only pushing his determination forward. 

“G-God,  _ please  _ shoot me. I-I’m so fucking cold...isn’t a bullet wound hot? I want to feel it…so bad..” 

Every nerve in his body tingled, pleading, hoping to be set ablaze in a world so frigid, straining his damaged vocal cords to beg for this newfound desire. The chains and collar upon his scrawny frame rattled with his shivering bones, growing heavier by the second. 

Whether he was stir crazy or impatient, it would be impossible to tell, any ounce of endurance within the lad disintegrating at the indifference to his demands. 

“Kill me with one hit! I want to feel it...  _ I WANT TO FUCKING FEEL IT!”  _

His scrawny arms began seizing mindlessly, wiggling the bars held tightly in his sweaty palms, filthy locks of thick brown hair flailing around just as helplessly. 

Silence. 

“My, my, why would they cage such a handsome young man?” 

It was a...woman. A surprisingly spunky one, who sounded rather  _ intrigued  _ and far too casual for this situation.

Admittedly, Klaus’s body recoiled a bit, his ears unadapted to the blessing of female voices, let alone such playful and welcoming ones. Obviously rooted in his vulnerability, an innate desire to trust this being sprouted within, even when her intentions were unclear. 

He wanted to say “Because I’m different. Because I’m gay. Because I like girl’s clothes.” 

But his tongue remained locked in place, unable to make even the most minuscule movement. That was just the surface of it...how could he shorten it, when he was caged for so many fucking reasons? 

Number Four jolted violently when a gentle, skilled hand reached through the metal bars confining him, and slid the opaque strip of black fabric off his damaged face, exposing his stunning emerald eyes. How many horrible years had it been since he’d been touched affectionately? 

Like being struck by an electric shock, or an ear-shattering noise, his body ejected itself back, slamming into the grid of iron behind him, the collision of his weight and the metal emitting an insufferable clanking noise. 

The sudden agony prompted his thousand-ton eyelids to shoot open, an action which only proved to be more gruesome. God, how it stung to see luminance after a never-ending deprivation of it! Like an army descending upon a hill, whatever hydration that remained within steadily marched towards his eyeballs, welling pathetically atop his waterline. 

What a strange phenomenon, to fear human interaction more than death, this lady’s one small move sending his slow-beating heart into a panicked frenzy. Although he yearned to retreat further into his prison, the iron pressing into his spine forbade him from doing so, leaving him to confront whoever stood before him.

“Look at those eyes!” She gasped, each word coated in astonishment, consistent with her joyous tone. Her initial thrill seemed to diminish as she further observed the frightened specimen before her, a motherly rhythm seizing her words as her hand slid down the boy’s greasy face to rest upon his sunken cheek. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Number Four.” 

Number...Four? 

An animalistic cry tore from his throat at that pet name, akin to a lamb being mutilated. The stitches of his infected emotional wounds had been ripped out, an unbearable mob of trauma, hate, and shame tainting his brain simultaneously. 

Even as confusion, loathing, and despair ruthlessly clawed at his insides, his body could no longer hold out, leaning into the touch, as if he was a dog being stroked. Big, beauteous, verdant eyes had come out of hibernation, trailing up to worship his savior. 

By heaven, she was  _ glamorous  _ with her perky, white curls complimenting blushed skin. From the pin-up style pin-stripe bow resting atop her head to the blood-stained raven stilettos that held her frame, she was an angel on Earth. 

Perfectly manicured fingernails traced his jawline, before proceeding to tangle themselves within the unkempt and butchered strands of his magnificent chocolate-colored hair. Her index finger and thumb took a moment to clutch a split end as if they understood the humiliation he bore as a dull blade was used to carelessly slice off tuffs of his precious mane just hours ago. 

“They didn’t treat you very well, did they?” She prompted, the statement portraying itself as fact, rather than an actual question. 

“They deserved to die.”

He hadn’t intended to say it, but the words simply tumbled out of his mouth, painting his unyielding agreeance with this lady’s decision to blow these men and boys to organic, fatty bits. 

The white-haired woman chuckled at that, a devilish grin crossing her bright red lips. 

“Tell me, sweetie...what do they call you?” 

“Klaus.” 

XXX 

His stiff body jerked upwards as if the mattress had suddenly conducted ten thousand jolts of skin-piercing electricity. A thin veil of perspiration coated his flawless porcelain skin, gaunt shoulder blades rising and falling as the man repeatedly forced weed-laced air into his quivering lungs. 

Even years later, his pretty little mind became entangled with the treacherous endeavors of his troubled past, unable to discern this reality from those intertwined with his dreamy state. While his thick, luscious, strands of dark brown hair had repaired themselves, draping elegantly over his skinny torso, the hideous scars within his brain still remained, untreated and vile. 

The silky purple sheets stretched across his queen size bed had grown disheveled, watching in unspoken pity as the man atop attempted to regain composure. Blankets and pillows had been tossed about the room, discarded and forgotten in his undesired trip down memory lane. 

Eventually, a friendly autumn breeze trailed through the window to his right, dancing affectionately with the sheer curtains and proceeding to tickle the bare skin of his upper body. Only then, he proceeded to lift his charming face from his quaking palms, accepting the fact sleep would no longer provide comfort. 

Habitually, the black hair tie decorating his wrist was then wrapped into his endless layers of coffee-colored tresses, slender legs thrown off the side of the bed as he prepared to stand. 

A glance at his alarm clock, resting just beneath a peculiarly shaped lamp, revealed it was 3:27 in the morning, an hour that was often deemed  _ ungodly.  _ While a sigh of defeat pressed through his throat, a raspberry succeeded it, ringing through the bedroom as he steadily rolled his shoulders back. 

Of course, with his luck, today happened to be a Goddamned Tuesday, meaning he had to work in a measly one hundred and eighty minutes. Welp looks like it was one of those wake n’ bake type of mornings, and Klaus certainly wasn’t referring to the fact he worked at a confectionery and pastry shop. 

Clumsily snatching the neon-colored trinket box off his dresser, he tugged the lid off, tossing it haphazardly onto the bed. 

Thank  _ fuck  _ he’d rolled a blunt earlier, the sweet strain of Sativa waiting patiently to be set ablaze and smoked. It wasn’t like he was trying to toot his own horn or anything, but admittedly he could roll a mean doobie. Hell, he was probably skilled enough to impress Snoop Dogg!

Well- hopefully, one would be good at something if they’d been doing it for ten plus years but that was beside the point. 

Cautiously navigating through the room, feeling the fuzzy white carpet beneath the soles of his feet, he waltzed into the recently bleached porcelain bathroom. As usual, he’d placed his favorite bright orange Bic lighter atop the stainless white vanity, prompting him to set the marijuana next to it while he stripped off the little clothes he had on. 

Aside from his absolutely adorable pink and green cheetah print panties, all that covered his alluring body was a pair of blue and white striped sweatpants, the elastic band clinging lazily to his protruding hip bones. 

Tucking his nimble fingers beneath the top of two garments, one tug towards the ground was enough to slide them down his slender legs, preparing him for a soothing early morning dip in the tub. 

Even as countless thoughts attempted to breach his recollection, Number Four turned to his usual self-medication to ward them off: a blunt and a bubble bath. What could better prepare you for the unpredictable and chaotic day ahead? 

Speaking of which, he’d better fucking call Ben to get a ride to work this morning….Aw shit! 

  
  



End file.
